Race 3: A Third-Degree Murder Of Audience Intelligence

Movie franchises carry certain signature elements with them that distinguish them from others. A James Bond movie must have exotic locations, slinky women, suave tuxedos and even smarter thrills. 

It is these signature elements that make even the weakest films in these respective series even halfway entertaining for the hardcore loyalists. And when even one film does not tick any of these boxes, no matter how subversive it might be, fans are bound to be disappointed. 

To begin with, the Race series of films never really qualified as a genuinely crowd-pleasing franchise in the same league as any of the above cinematic gems. Trapped and convoluted by a certain smug indulgence of style an endless melee of borrowed twists and turns that feel even more improbable than the last, you can, however, say safely that the first two films (okay, we will settle only for the first film) were quite efficiently slick and swift and at least had Pritam's infectiously entertaining, if shamelessly ripped-off, dance numbers to keep us humming. 

Also, the 2008 blockbuster Race was made a lot more compelling, in its ludicrous way, by the presence of a sleek and spiffy leading man who carried off the film's designer label-laden style and even its cheesiest moments. You need a Saif Ali Khan to make even the most groan-worthy one-liners sound like they are being spoken by James Bond and you also need an Akshay Khanna to embrace the smarmy, shamelessly duplicity that this amoral premise needs. Most crucially, you need Abbas-Mustan at the helm for it is only these seasoned potboiler masters who can make all this pulp fun-filled to a great degree.

Does Race 3 tick any of these boxes, which is not really that tall an order in the first place? No, it doesn't.

Instead, it ends up being a film which seems to celebrate its own inanity without even a shred of subtlety or self-depreciation. 

Look, there is nothing wrong with the idea of a totally brainless action blockbuster. We have been doing it every now and then and while the result has often been unoriginal and utterly unintelligent, at least a plot, even one made up of stolen tropes and stale formula, ensures that we stay in our seats till the end. Even the showy yet shallow Dhoom films get it. And Vijay Krishna Acharya's Tashan proved that you can have much fun with the very silliness of the genre provided you do not take yourself too seriously and serve up a plot that brims with both contrivance and cheek. 

Race 3 is not any of these films. Oh, no, this is a film that takes its mediocrity and idiocy so seriously that it ends up being bloated with nothing but a boring mess of elements that could have been so entertaining in a different film. 

There is no suspense, there is no conflict and there is not much of a narrative either. The film begins with arms tycoon Shamsher Singh, played by a handsomely greying and dapper Anil Kapoor, finding his way out of a sticky negotiation with fountain pens that explode conveniently on his whim. That is perhaps still a promisingly pulpy start but the rest of Race 3 soon nosedives in trying to juggle together at least half a dozen subplots and conspiracies without ever caring to develop at least one of them to a satisfying finish. 

When he is not swindling hi-tech weaponry, Singh is trying to be the nicest, warmest father to his lunkheaded twin offspring: the scowling Suraj and the more-smug-than-svelte Sanjana. The two, however, are chafing at how their brawnier cousin Sikandar, who is also something of a wannabe superhero, gets the lion's share of the inheritance as decreed in their mother's will and soon, quite predictably, a plot is afoot. 

But while the film could have done well to lead us at least into this tangle of treachery, writer Shiraz Ahmed instead chooses to pad his otherwise flaky template with the chocolate-dark amorality of a noir film without ever understanding what it needs to be effective. We need femme fatales and McGuffins rather than just a couple of painfully bland dames and some stupid hokum about stealing a hard disk from a vault that might be like a cakewalk for Danny Ocean and Co. Sigh. 

The man at the helm, Remo D'Souza, is not even a filmmaker, let alone a storyteller, to begin with. This is the kind of nonsensical premise that anyone else, hell even Sajid Nadiadwala or Milan Luthria, would have turned into a reasonably entertaining throwback yarn. D'Souza, for his part, feels rather awe-struck with the almost unrealistic expectations thrust on him and while flashes of Race 3 are quite commendably slick (no small thanks to Ayananka Bose' well-lit cinematography), most of it comes off as inconsequential and ham-fisted as in a particularly awful music video with high production values and nothing else. 

The amateur director shuttles between locations and unmemorable song sequences (and even more unremarkable action sequences) without coherence, a sense of narrative direction or purpose while most of the supporting cast appears not only over-the-top but also offensively annoying. One of the villains also has a sickening penchant of smelling and sniffing at everything like a stray dog. 

It does not help that the film does not make us root for the lead players of the film itself. Saqib Saleem, otherwise likably cocky in indie productions, is frustratingly imbecilic as a fuming, flustered Suraj; the way he screams in midst of his standoffs with the bad guys feels like the lad trying too hard to be macho. Daisy Shah's Sanjana is one of the most insipid leading ladies in recent times, letting her stilettos do all the ass-kicking while Jacqueline Fernandez' Jessica flashes her legs at the screen, thinking that it will do in the absence of spontaneity or even expressions and effervescence.

What about the veterans? Bobby Deol, a lithe and lanky leading man who was refreshingly cool about two decades ago in equally preposterous but more enjoyable lark like Soldier and Gupt, is here given the signature Akshay Khanna role but without much mischief up his sleeves, he instead settles for grumpy grimaces. Salman Khan's Sikandar, the big-ticket attraction of this tiresome ride, looks flabbier than ever but still sells some of the throwaway moments and lines with some gusto. Still, I missed the Nawab, so shoot me. 

On one end of all this senseless, tasteless and overly noisy mess stands Anil Kapoor, the only one in the cast who does what he has to do and still look dignified about it all. The ace actor had hitherto been only the comic relief of the series and if there is any genuine guilty fun to be found in Race 3, it is in Kapoor's snarling and suavely attired Shamsher, even as he flips from sleek English to gross Bhojpuri. 

He alone proves that he is still game enough for leaving most of his peers struggling with blockbuster trash; unfortunately, this film never quite feels the need to thrill the crowds, let alone make a dash for the finishing line. As Sikandar would say, 'I was feeling like shit'.

My Rating: 1 and a half stars out of 5